


And On the Wind it Howls

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Good Friend Eskel (The Witcher), Human Sacrifice, Improper Use of Axii (The Witcher), Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Jaskier is scaroused, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Panic Attacks, Public Sex, Ritual Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, Suicide Attempt, Warlord Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchers are so weird, everyone is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Sugar and Spice Witcher BingoPrompt: public/semi-public
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052879
Comments: 25
Kudos: 161





	And On the Wind it Howls

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Yooo, my 40th Witcher fic! _What the fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a suicide attempt. Proceed with caution, please.

_I'm going to be sick_ , Jaskier thinks, _all over these very important looking letters_. Wouldn't that be just the perfect ending to this truly horrendous day?

It has been weeks now, weeks since he left his home behind, since his father oh so gladly sent him on this journey, but the terror of that day when he'd first been informed of his fate has not abated. Strange, he thinks, for surely the human mind is not made to withstand such an emotion for so long. He'd have thought he'd go numb after a while, resign himself to what was to come. Come to terms with it.

Now, sitting in a chair in what is essentially an office, across from the so horrifically scarred Witcher who had accepted him as tribute on the White Wolf's behalf, Jaskier is just as terrified as he was that first day.

"What are you scared of, boy," said Witcher asks now. He's sent someone to fetch the White Wolf, keeping watch over Jaskier himself, and Jaskier trembles under his near unblinking gaze. He would be handsome, Jaskier thinks, in a rugged, common way, if it weren't for the right side of his face.

"Nothing, milord," he says quietly, and the man smiles. It pulls at his scars, and Jaskier shivers.

"You'd better stop trying to lie to us right away, that won't help you." He leans forward in his chair a little. "Witchers can sense it when people lie."

Jaskier's heart beats faster at that, and the Witcher smiles wider.

"Yeah, just like that. When you lie, your heart skips and beats faster." He closes his eyes, inhales. "Your scent sours. Although that's hard to tell right now, under all that panic."

A part of Jaskier is fascinated by this. He knew Witchers are generally said to be taller, stronger, faster, and going from the Witchers he's met so far, that holds true. He just thought the more animalistic side of the rumours about them was just that, a rumour.

The rest of him is both mortified by the fact that the man can smell him, and terrified at the revelation that lying, something he had perfected into an art form while living with his parents this last year, is useless in this place.

The Witcher looks at him pensively. "So let me ask again: what are you scared of?"

Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat. He needs to be brave. At least a little. "You, milord. Witchers." He cringes - some poet he is - then adds, "The White Wolf."

He expects to be hit for his insolence. For the man's apparent placid demeanour to break. Instead he nods, that same pensive expression on his face. "Reasonable," he murmurs, and Jaskier's jaw drops. The man smiles again. "You're Redanian. I would be surprised if they hadn't fed you lies and misconceptions about us."

 _He's just saying that to make you feel safe,_ a voice in the back of Jaskier's head whispers, and he grits his teeth. "Yes, milord."

"You can stop with the milord nonsense. There's no lords here, just Witchers. I'm Eskel," he offers mildly.

Jaskier looks down at his boots. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, mi-" He catches himself, presses his lips together, and Eskel huffs a laugh.

"Quick study." His attention shifts, away from Jaskier and to the door, and a moment later Jaskier too can hear the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

 _This is it,_ he thinks.

When the door opens, four people pour inside. Three Witchers, all wearing the same wolf medallion as Eskel, and a woman, a sorceress, resplendent in black. One Witcher looks very old, with grey hair and wrinkles that look to stem both from laughter and sorrow; the other has black hair and a high forehead marred by scars, with a crooked nose and a smirk that speaks of perpetual annoyance.

The third is the White Wolf. Jaskier is certain of it. Hair as white as milk, eyes of gold that seem to see right through him. His stomach drops unpleasantly, and he half considers crawling under the desk to get away from those eyes.

"Who is this then," the sorceress asks, curiosity evident in her voice. It's probably not every day that a human just gets dropped on their doorstep to be- _No_. He won't think about that.

Instead he sits up straight, tries to call on his schooling. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service, milady."

"Oh, a pretty flower with pretty manners," the woman says, head tilted to the side, considering him. Jaskier fights the impulse to squirm under her gaze.

"Why are you here, boy?" The old Witcher, voice kind but no nonsense, and Jaskier pulls his shoulders up towards his ears.

"The soldiers who brought him in said he's tribute," Eskel cuts in, and four pairs of eyes - violet and amber and gold - look him up and down, appraising.

"Tribute?" The black-haired Witcher scoffs. "What's he supposed to be good for?"

Jaskier can feel himself go red in the face, and he looks down at his knees.

"Oh," the sorceress breathes, and Jaskier tries very hard to breathe slowly, to not die of mortification or to hyperventilate. "Is that the reason, little flower?" She's closer now, her feet coming into his field of vision, and he pulls his shoulders up higher.

"Was fucking terrified when I brought him up here." Eskel's voice is gentle, and Jaskier can hear the understanding dawning. "Thought he was going to faint on me."

There's a hand on his shoulder and Jaskier flinches, to the side and off the chair he was in. He lands on the cold stone floor, bruising his tailbone. His heart is beating a staccato against his ribs as he stares up at the woman. She's so, so beautiful, and Jaskier wants to die. " _I'm sorry_ ," he blurts, "I can be good, I promise, please, I just-"

"Give us the room," comes a gravelly voice, and Jaskier's stomach drops even further.

The White Wolf, and Jaskier bursts into tears as the old and the black-haired Witcher leave quietly. Eskel heaves himself out of his chair and offers his arm to the sorceress, and Jaskier is sure he's imagining the look of pity on her face as Eskel leads her outside.

Then the door closes behind them, and Jaskier is alone with the warlord.

He's sobbing, the panic choking him. He can't do this. He thought he could, that he could be brave, but now, faced with this mountain of a man who could snap him like a twig without even breaking a sweat, his bravery has entirely abandoned him. " _Please_ ," he gasps wetly, tears streaming down his face, "just make it quick."

The Wolf hasn't moved. He just stands there, arms crossed, watching Jaskier. Then, after what feels like eons, he asks, "What do you think is going to happen to you here?"

Jaskier cries harder. Can't they just get it over with? "Please," he gasps again, his heart racing in his chest, "I can't-" He can't breathe, there's no air in his lungs and he can't get any, and the last thing he sees before everything goes dark is the Wolf looking down at him, much closer than he'd been, with a look on his face that could almost be called concern.

Then Jaskier passes out, and knows no more.

* * *

He's floating, somewhere in the dark, warm and comfortable. He feels safe, for the first time in weeks, feels like he can breathe, can just _be_ without having to worry about a thing.

Then someone says his name, and Jaskier crashes down into his body again, into reality. His eyes snap open, and there's the White Wolf, sitting in a chair beside him.

Jaskier freezes. Stares.

"You fainted," the Wolf says quietly, watching him.

"I-"

"Give the poor boy room to breathe," the sorceress says from somewhere, and Jaskier looks around wildly.

She's back, in one of the chairs by the desk. Eskel is beside her, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed in front of his broad chest.

Jaskier himself is on a cot in the corner, covered in furs. The White Wolf sits beside him, watching him silently. Jaskier goes red again. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I got... overwhelmed."

"Hm." There's a line between the Wolf's brows, and Jaskier presses his lips together tightly. "Why are you here," he asks at length, and Jaskier stiffens.

"Do _not_ tell those beasts the truth," his father had said, his fingers digging painfully into Jaskier's shoulder, "or this will all be for naught."

And so Jaskier bites his tongue and looks at the warlord's hands. The silence stretches. Then the Wolf asks, "Who sent you?"

Jaskier says nothing. His heart is beating in his throat, but he can't tell the truth. He'll be made to suffer either way, the least he can do is what he was sent here to do - keep his people safe.

"Julian," the Wolf says, and he flinches as though he's been slapped, his shoulders rising up towards his ears again. The Wolf makes an annoyed sort of noise, shifting in his chair. "We don't have time for this. Eskel."

Both Eskel and Yennefer stiffen. Eskel pushes himself away from the desk. "Geralt..."

"Just do it," the Wolf growls, and Jaskier whimpers.

"Do what? _Wait_ , I'll-"

"I'm sorry, Julian," Eskel says, and he _looks_ sorry, sad almost, and before Jaskier can question further, Eskel moves his hand and-

 _Something_ happens.

Jaskier feels calm. Loose. Faintly, he can feel his head loll back against the wall, can feel the fur he's clutching slip from his grasp. His eyes close and he sighs, utterly relaxed. He sits there, blank and waiting, although he doesn't know for what.

"Julian?" A deep voice, rough and gentle at the same time. He likes that voice.

"Hmm."

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer honestly. Can you do that?"

"Yeeeesss..." His mouth doesn't want to work for some reason, and the word comes out slow and sleepy.

"Geralt-"

"Quiet. Julian," and oh, he likes the way the voice says his name. "Who sent you to Kaer Morhen?"

"King," he slurs, "tribute for the Wolf." He feels like his brain has been dipped in molasses. It should scare him, probably, but he feels so warm and safe, especially with that voice talking to him.

"Which king?"

"Vizimir." He stumbles over the name, too many i's. "Stop invasion."

"You're doing really well, Julian, thank you for being so honest," the voice says, and Jaskier preens, smiles happily. "Did you volunteer to come to Kaer Morhen?"

Something bitter twinges in Jaskier's gut, and he wrinkles his nose. "No."

A shuffling, then a quiet noise of... protest? Jaskier frowns. "Who chose you, Julian? Vizimir?"

"No." He shifts, his head lolling to the other side. There's wetness at his mouth, and he realises it's open; he's drooling. That's odd.

"Who chose you?"

"Father," Jaskier breathes, frowning harder. He doesn't want to think about his father, he wants the voice to say nice things to him again, but there's only silence for a long time.

Finally, the voice says, "Tell me what they thought I would do with you."

Jaskier doesn't want to. He doesnt want to tell the voice - the Wolf, it must be - all the horrible things they're saying about him outside of his lands. "Hnng," he says instead.

"Eskel."

"Geralt, are you sure? He's already so deep-"

"I need to know."

Jaskier sinks somehow deeper, his mind growing even foggier than before. It feels strange, but not unwelcome.

Then the voice says, "Julian, tell me what they thought I would do with you."

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. He has to answer, though, has to give the voice what it wants. "Fuck me," he says at length, "rape." Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Kill."

"Geralt, that's enough."

"She's right, for fuck's sake, wolf-"

"Let him come up. Slowly."

"I have Axii'd someone before, if you'll believe it, I know how to-"

"Just do it, Eskel."

The fog lifts from Jaskier's mind in increments. Before, it felt like there was cotton stuffed in his ears, in his brain, somehow, and now it's like waking up very, very slowly. He opens his eyes again, still feeling a little loopy, almost drunk. The White Wolf sits beside him, scowling hard at... something, and behind him are Yennefer, still seated, and Eskel. The sorceress looks distraught. The dark-haired Witcher looks almost stricken, for some reason.

"Wha- What happened?" There's spit running down his chin, and he paws at his face absently to wipe it away.

"Nothing," Yennefer says, unconvincingly, "you fell asleep."

 _Right_.

He doesn't believe that for a second, and when the Wolf gets to his feet, he slams back into awareness all of a sudden, remembering just where he is and who he is with. He flinches backwards, knocking his head against the wall and almost biting off his tongue.

Both Witchers and the sorceress twitch, towards him, as if to touch, and Jaskier whimpers. " _Please_ , what happened, did I do something wrong? I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I-" He's close to tears again, and the Wolf holds up a hand. Jaskier's mouth snaps shut.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Julian. Yennefer will take you to your room, you can rest. Then we'll have a proper conversation."

Yennefer gets to her feet, and Jaskier is more confused than ever. "M-my room? I don't understand."

"You need sleep, little flower. A bath, and food. As Geralt said, we'll talk after. You don't have to worry."

Jaskier has the sudden, insane urge to laugh. Surely she's joking.

The Wolf moves aside, to stand behind the desk, and Yennefer holds out a hand. "Come along."

He's hyper aware of everything as he follows the sorceress through the corridors of the keep. There are... _so many_ Witchers, he thinks, it must be hundreds. That's not what surprises him. He expected that. You don't become a warlord with only a handful of people.

No, what surprises him are all the _humans_ they come across. There are so many of them, obviously working for the Witchers, keeping things running smoothly. Some wear medallions of their own, he notices, modified, smaller versions of the ones the Witchers wear. Curious.

Yennefer leads him up a seemingly endless series of stairs, into a tower, where she shows him into a comfortable guest room. His face must show his confusion when she smiles, sitting on a little sofa by the fireplace and pats the space beside her. Jaskier sits stiffly, just on the edge of the sofa.

"You're wondering what odd sort of prison cell this is," she says, and Jaskier nods, cautious.

"I didn't expect... this." He waves at the plush looking bed, at the desk.

The mage's face does something complicated, where it almost looks like her features want to soften but she doesn't let them. "There's nothing we would gain from mistreating you, Julian."

There's a tapestry over the fireplace. A hunting scene, hounds and horses and deer fleeing. He sympathises, unsurprisingly, with the deer. "Jaskier," he says quietly after a moment. Yennefer cocks her head.

"Pardon?"

"That's- That's my name. The one I go by. Nobody except my... my parents calls me Julian."

The sorceress sits, watching him quietly for a long while. Then she says, "Parents ought to love their children. Not sell them when it benefits themselves."

Jaskier looks up at her sharply. She can't know, can she? How? He didn't tell them-

"I have seen the look on your face many times. They threw you away when it suited them, didnt they?"

He nods, after a moment. "Yes." His voice is barely above a whisper.

Yennefer hums. "I can't make you any promises beyond assuring you that no harm will come to you here, but that is a certainty. As long as you are here, we will keep you safe."

He laughs, he just can't help himself. "Why? _Why_ would you do that? Why would _he_?"

"Because that's what he does, Jaskier. I know they tell all sorts of sordid tales about the Witchers but believe me, they're not true. Geralt is a good man, and if you need protection, he will grant it gladly." She gets to her feet again, brushes off her skirts. "I'll have someone bring you something to eat. There's a bath through that door." She studies him for a moment, and Jaskier fidgets. "You could do well here, you know? You have the heart for it."

And with that she leaves him, and Jaskier stares at the door, wondering what the hell is going on.

* * *

By the time Jaskier has washed weeks of travel off of himself in the really quite astounding bathroom - outfitted with pipes that spew hot water right into the tub! - there is food waiting for him by the hearth. Cheese and bread and grapes, accompanied by a decent red.

It's a shame that he eats a handful of grapes and a small piece of bread and then immediately feels like he's going to be sick.

He really has no idea what is going on here. From what he was told these last couple of years, the Witcher army was pure evil, killing humans indiscriminately, when they didn't enslave them for their own perverted pleasure.

That's not at all what he has found here. Sure, the Witchers are intimidating, obviously far superior physically to him in every way, and whatever happened when he 'fell asleep' is fishy in the extreme, but... He's alive, he hasn't been raped or threatened, they gave him a room and food, and all of a sudden he's bawling his eyes out.

It's all too much. He spent weeks in limbo, unable to escape this fate his father and fucking Vizimir cooked up for him, and now that it's supposedly here, everything is different. Nothing is as he expected it to be, and he feels like he's falling, like he's in a dinghy on the ocean, unmoored and without a rudder.

He's alone, and helpless, and he doesn't know what to do.

When the tears have finally stopped, he just sits there for a long time, staring at nothing. It _can't_ be this simple, can it? The things Yennefer said... They can't be true. Surely this is all a trap, to lull him into a sense of safety and then strike, make his humiliation and pain all the more impactful.

Jaskier won't allow that. He doesn't have much, but he has his life, still, and it's his to do with as he pleases.

He sets aside the plate and gets to his feet. There's windows, two of them, with actual glass, and he walks over to one and looks outside. It's nearly dark, the sun having dipped behind the mountains a while ago, and Jaskier just looks for a long time. It's a beautiful view, in all its cold, hard splendour. If he wasn't feeling like absolute shit, he might be able to appreciate it more. Right now, it just drives home the hopelessness of his situation.

The latch opens easily, much easier than he expected. It's an old keep, surely the windows would be stuck, but no. The latch opens and the window swings outward smoothly, and the cold night air hits him square in the face. It's a shock, and for a moment his resolve wavers, before he reminds himself that he has no other choice.

There's a little footstool that matches the sofa, and Jaskier grabs it and pulls it over to the window, then climbs up.

The tower is very high, and the ground is very far below him. He can see torches, tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness. Good. High up means he doesn't run the risk of just getting mangled. He just hopes it will be quick once he hits the ground.

Jaskier lifts his foot up onto the windowsill. His heart is racing, but he feels eerily calm now that he knows what to do.

There's a sharp knock at the door, and a second later it swings open to reveal the White Wolf, and Jaskier whimpers. _No, no, **no**_ , he thinks, and he heaves himself up to stand on the sill. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets go-

A hand grabs his arm, another takes hold of the back of his trousers, pulling him back, away from the window, and Jaskier screams and thrashes. " _No_! No, let me, let me _go_ , please, no, I can't-" The Wolf's arms wind around him; they're like steel, unyielding, and Jaskier fights harder, screams louder. "No, _I won't let you_ , don't-"

"Jaskier," the Wolf says, and Jaskier shakes, squirming in the man's grip. He gets his fingers around the hand pressed against his side and digs his nails in as hard as he can. Blood wells up under his fingertips. The Witcher grunts, but his grip remains just as firm.

"Let me go, you fucking _monster_ ," Jaskier screams as he tries to kick, and the Wolf's arms tighten around him. He can't draw breath, not enough to fill his lungs to fuel his fight, and he goes limp with a whimper. "No, no, please don't," and he's crying again.

The Witcher just holds him, silent as the grave, until Jaskier stops crying. It takes him a long time, and all through it he's painfully aware of the solid body he's pressed against, the breath brushing against the nape of his neck. In different circumstances, this would be a dream come true. The Wolf is handsome, in a terrifying sort of way, and Jaskier thinks that he could feel safe in these arms, if he wasn't so sure the man will break him to amuse himself.

Finally his tears have dried, and the Witcher says, "I'll let you go now. Behave yourself."

 _Don't try this again_ , he means, and Jaskier presses his lips together tightly. His hands drop away from where he's still weakly holding on to the Wolf's, slippery with blood now, and the Witcher pushes him up to sitting before he releases him. Jaskier's first impulse is to try again, and his body rocks towards the window for a brief second, but the Witcher's eyes flash at him in warning and he goes limp again.

They sit, side by side, for a long minute, until the Wolf gets to his feet and closes the window. Hands still on the latch and back to Jaskier, he says, "I'm sorry," and Jaskier blinks. _What_? "I should have anticipated this."

Jaskier says nothing, just stares at the man's broad back.

"You'll get different rooms. Closer to the ground." He turns around, and his face is unreadable.

"Why do you care," Jaskier blurts, and it's like a dam breaks. "What does it _matter_ to you if I die? Because then you _can't fuck me_?"

The Wolf's lips thin. "I'm not going to fuck you."

Jaskier laughs. Something inside of him has cracked wide open. "Give me to your men, then. Can't entertain the troops if you have to scrape me off the courtyard."

The warlord says nothing for a long time, and some of Jaskier's bravado shrivels up. Finally, he says, "That's not how we do things here."

"How, then? Keep me in suspense so I drive myself insane with fear?" He gets to his feet. "I _know_ how you treat humans."

"Do you?" The Wolf's voice is very soft, and very tired, like this is a conversation he's had many times before. "Or do you know what Vizimir and his cronies told you?"

It's oddly satisfying to hear his father called a crony, because that's what he is. Someone who licks Vizimir's boots and sells his own child for political gain. Jaskier realises with a start that he's smiling. He wipes the expression off his face. "Why would they lie?"

"Because it serves them well to keep people afraid of us," the Witcher says. He moves away from the window, making Jaskier flinch back, and sits on the sofa. He watches Jaskier for a long moment, then asks, "Do you know what Witchers are for?" When Jaskier shakes his head, he says, "We were made to kill monsters. That was our sole purpose. Until I- _we_ realised some monsters are human."

Jaskier knows exactly what he means. The evil deeds of the nobility aren't a secret, and he has heard of enough peasant girls lured into a lord's bed who ended up leaving through the back door, dead as a doornail. Still. "I don't understand."

"We're made to protect humans," the Wolf says. "From whatever causes them harm."

"But... the war-"

"We do what needs doing, and no more." There's something odd in the man's gaze, like a plea, like he's begging Jaskier to understand, to believe him.

"Oh," is all he can say, because his thoughts are spiraling, his world being turned upside down. The Wolf watches him for a long moment, but Jaskier is too frazzled to squirm beneath his gaze.

"Will you try again," he asks, finally, and that yanks Jaskier straight back into full awareness.

He wants to say that, no, of course not. Wants to keep the option open to himself. But he finds himself shaking his head and saying, "I don't know," instead.

Again, the Wolf just looks at him, silent, for a long moment, and then some tension seems to bleed out of him, an almost imperceptible loosening of his shoulders. "Thank you for being honest."

Jaskier's things are packed up again and the Wolf accompanies him to a different set of rooms, below ground this time, and Jaskier can't help but snort when he notices that's where they're going.

"What's so amusing," the Witcher asks, and Jaskier bites his lip.

"Just realised I definitely won't be able to jump out of any windows down here."

Something that could be almost a smile tugs at the warlord's mouth before he schools his face again. "That's the point."

The new rooms are even bigger, and Jaskier flushes when he realises where they must be. "These aren't guest rooms."

"No," the Wolf says on his way out the door, "they're not," and Jaskier sinks down on the ridiculously large bed, his heart hammering in his chest.

* * *

The next days pass in a bit of a blur. Jaskier spends nearly all his time in his room, except for a short walk around the courtyard with either of his appointed guards, because that's a thing he has now. Aiden is a Cat Witcher with a biting sense of humour and seemingly no filter, Coen the exact opposite. The Griffin is polite to a fault, giving all the courtiers Jaskier has ever met a run for their money.

Jaskier finds he likes these men, despite himself.

He doesn't see the Wolf again during those days, but Eskel or Yennefer pop in a few times, mostly to drop off books (Eskel) for him to pass the time, or grill him about court gossip (Yennefer). It's... odd. He doesn't know what they're trying to accomplish, and he finds himself in a constant state of suspense and mild panic.

A week goes by like this, and then he is escorted into the White Wolf's office, for lack of a better word, again. He is once more faced with the Wolf, Yennefer and Eskel, and he fidgets, nerves choking him as Eskel directs him into a chair.

"We have spoken to our sources in the Redanian court," the Wolf says without preamble. "They confirmed what you've told us."

 _What did I tell you_ , Jaskier thinks wildly, and he doesn't miss the way Yennefer's eyes flash at the Wolf.

"We are offering you a place to stay," the Wolf continues, unperturbed by the sorceress's ire. "As court bard." His mouth twists oddly around _court_ , like he dislikes the phrase when applied to his own kingdom. "Unless you'd like to leave. It's your choice," the warlord says, and laughter bubbles up in Jaskier's throat, a horrible, hysterical sound that spills from his lips before he can close his teeth over it.

He laughs, and it hurts, and he can't stop. He laughs and laughs until tears start rolling down his face, and the Witchers and Yennefer exchange concerned looks as his laughter turns into crying, big, heaving sobs that wrack his entire body.

Nobody touches him, and in some remote part of his mind he's glad for it.

When he has calmed somewhat, Yennefer produces a handkerchief and holds it out for him wordlessly. Jaskier takes it and wipes his face. He should say something, thank her, probably, but he's drained. Tired. He wants to sleep, to not think.

The Wolf shifts his weight, and then he's crouching down in front of Jaskier's chair. He freezes, fingers going tight about the kerchief. The Wolf is frowning, a deep line between his brows, and for a wild, insane moment Jaskier wants to reach out and soothe that line away with his thumb. "You can think about it," the warlord says, "you don't have to decide now."

Jaskier twists the handkerchief between his fingers and bites his lip. "You actually think that I have a choice."

There's a hush, an expectant silence. No one even moves. Then the Wolf asks, "What makes you think that you don't?"

"I don't think, I know," Jaskier says quietly. "I can't go back, and I wouldn't make it more than a week out there." He looks at the warlord's boots. They're not those of a king, pristine and only ever worn inside. No, these are old, well-worn, the leather scuffed but well taken care of. This is a warrior, not a politician. The thought should frighten him. A warrior must be more dangerous than a politician, surely, but he's been around enough politicians to know the opposite can be true. "I have to stay," he finally says, quietly.

And so it's settled, and Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, becomes Jaskier, the bard of Kaer Morhen.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


End file.
